So it’s Ash Wednesday. The pack of instant chocolate pancakes I bought yesterday are all now somewhere in my digestive system and now begins the 40 days until Easter. I’m not even going to get started on all the fun to be had in picking apart the pagan symbolism permeating that festival (that’s something to be done on my other blog).
However, I am going to do something I don’t usually do. Mostly inspired by this post from the ever-awesome Girl on the Net (no idea how to capitalise that) I’ve decided to give up a lazy and slightly destructive habit: to-whit, wanking into a sock.
I’m sure at least one reader just spat out their corn flakes, so let me just add that the rest of this post will not be getting any better!
At first glance socks are the ideal accompaniment to a male’s masturbation. They’re roughly penis shaped and offer the assurance that, no matter how little attention is paid at the point of ejaculation, it aint going anywhere near your prized first edition of “Tickle Torture.”
But there are considerable drawbacks. The most notable for me at least had been the huge difference in sensation between my little routine and pretty much all remotely sexual sensations. Nobody but nobody is going to have an orrifice that feels like day-old slightly stale elasticated cotton. And that is a very good thing! Because the other thing I’d realised is simply this: whilst the sensations created using a sock were familiar and effective, it isn’t really much fun. Yes it does the job, but the whole thing tends to be over quickly, there’s a certain amount of chaffing and it doesn;t achieve anywhere near as much satisfaction as the times when one does it properly, with lube, tissues, and a ninety minute documentary about the north face of the Eiger.
So, for lent I’m not giving up sex, or masturbation, or even porn. But for a bit over a month I’m putting my socks straight into the laundry basket in an attempt to recalibrate my dick. And yes that’s a sentence I never thought I’d be writing either.